


room for a troubled soul

by sabraneadaz



Category: The Priory of the Orange Tree - Samantha Shannon
Genre: Canon Character of Color, Canon Disabled Character, Cunnilingus, Developing Relationship, Estina Melaugo Backstory, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fan Soundtracks, First Meetings, Friendship, Gay Pirates, High Fantasy, Lesbian Character of Color, Light Angst, POV Laya Yidagé, POV Niclays Roos, Perunta, Pirates, Playlist, Playlist in chapter 3, Post-Canon, Post-War, Rare Pairings, Swan Strait, The Rose Eternal, Trauma, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, You can easily avoid the smut in Chapter 1, Yscalin, soundtrack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24261253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabraneadaz/pseuds/sabraneadaz
Summary: 'In Kawontay, members of the Fleet of the Tiger Eye would be received into taverns with fear, resentment, or volatility. Laya had become accustomed to sudden hatred thick like sea fret upon her entrance, or occasionally projectiles and insults from their more foolish rivals. Here though, in Perunta, far from the pirate port of Kawontay and the Golden Empress’s territory, Laya was unrecognised and unaccosted on her route to the bar.'(Niclays and Laya are summoned to Ascalon Palace for trade talks. Luckily, theRose Eternalis waiting out a storm.) Smut in Chapter 1. Playlist in Chapter 3.
Relationships: Estina Melaugo/Laya Yidagé, Laya Yidagé & Niclays Roos
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9





	1. do you wanna feel beautiful?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Fall Out Boy's _Alone Together_  
>  For those who would like to avoid the smut, just stop reading after '“Well, are you going to show me it or not?”'

Laya’s life had been centred on the East. She was born and raised in Kumenga, a city ensconced in the wishbone of a bifurcated river and the diamond sea into which it flowed. Kumenga was hot and tightly populated; a city fed and watered by the fruits of the sea and lush vegetation cultivated at the waterways. The river was slow running, having carved its leisurely way across the wide plains of Lasia thousands of years beforehand, swamping the land then settling into two main waterways and a complex delta upon which Kumenga sprouted.

From a young child Laya’s father had filled her head with tales of the East; the seas, the dragons and their riders, the hierarchies, the emperors, the history. Her adult life was spent in pursuit of those myths and of her father, and it was spent imprisoned, suspended in the black glass of the abyss.

Her father had also taught her many languages, of the West, the East, and the South, and those of the West – Yscali, Inysh, and Mentish – came with their own histories and cultures, but Laya had never dwelt on them.

Inys was Virtudom. Mentendon was learning. Yscalin was music.

Laya had thirsted to learn of the world, but the mysterious East had always been their goal.

It was ironic, she thought, that she had spent her life in Eastern waters and yet still knew so little of the East itself beyond Kawontay. She had not been further than the shores of Seiiki. She had not seen Feather Island. She still did not know what had become of her father, although it was almost certain he had been executed in Seiiki if he had not died en route.

She comforted herself with the knowledge that Komoridu was the East’s greatest mystery.

This self-reflection had been spurred by the jolt of her carriage as it hit Perunta’s cobbles. She hadn’t even known Perunta was built upon cobbles, having never travelled her own continent beyond Lasia and the Ersyr, even before Fýredel’s conquest of Yscalin.

Niclays had been called to the Palace of Ascalon to attend a trade meeting with High Princess Ermuna and Queen Sabran. Rather than travel with the High Princess, he had taken a sabbatical and invited Laya to join him in Inys before returning to show her his homeland of Mentendon. He was due to meet Laya any day so that they may make the journey across the Swan Strait together. Niclays hadn’t said much to the effect but Laya suspected he was loath to board a ship after his encounter with the Golden Empress. She herself had a lurch in her stomach at the thought, but she could not devise the meaning. For many days after resettling in Kumenga she’d found her head pitching and rolling on absent swells.

Laya paid the driver with the little currency she carried, and continued on foot through the port town. She’d hitched a ride with him from Cárscaro and while the carriage was really little more than a padded box, the man had been pleasant company.

The useful thing about port towns is that every one of them grows alike, no matter where you are in the world. The markets will always be where the merchants land, and so the town will snake outwards from the port proper. Where she walked now was far outside the residential areas. Laya strode through the empty streets, passing abandoned taverns and guest houses, many of them with crosses of peeling paint – remnants of the Draconic Plague – still scarring the doorways. Down a street that must have once been a busy thoroughfare, she spotted a rebuilt prayer house with a candle lighting the window.

Laya gladly left the abandoned quarter behind, and like a beacon, the prayer house beckoned her towards the redeveloped Perunta – the Perunta at the port – the Perunta that she knew was once considered the most beautiful port town in the West. The biting winds of the Ashen Sea whipped at her face and she pulled her cloak tighter around her. The smells of dust and decay were slowly replaced with piss and cooking, and then with the subtle scents of pomanders – still hung upon door and neck by almost all of the residents, and a tradition unlikely to end whilst the Nameless One’s legacy cursed their tongues – and the sounds of cheering and music reached her ears, and the stronger scents of fresh fish and ale and wine, and Laya knew she’d reached Perunta.

She stopped some way away from the ships – still and hulking in the night – and pushed open the door of a tavern. A freshly painted sign hung above the heavy oak door, bearing the image of a luscious cluster of red grapes and the name _The Grapevine_ in gold cursive. She was to await Niclays there.

She stood paralysed inside the tavern’s entryway. The music and cheering and sounds of merriment had blasted her ears, but that wasn’t what had caused her pause. Her hand slipped quick as a snake to the leather-sheathed knife at her belly.

Nothing.

Aside from the curious glances of some of the patrons – held for only a few seconds, as the thriving port was used, once again, to travellers – there was little acknowledgement of her entry, and Laya was soon forgotten in the din. She relaxed, unclenching her fingers from her heavy cloak.

In Kawontay, members of the Fleet of the Tiger Eye would be received into taverns with fear, resentment, or volatility. She had become accustomed to sudden hatred thick like sea fret upon her entrance, or occasionally projectiles and insults from their more foolish rivals. Here though, in Perunta, far from the pirate port of Kawontay and the Golden Empress’s territory, Laya was unrecognised and unaccosted on her route to the bar.

The barwoman nodded to the ale behind her, and Laya nodded her assent. The ale landed inside a heavy iron tankard. A group at a long bench to the side of the bar cheered rowdily. Ale sloshed from their tankards to paint the wooden floor.

“Just arrived?” the barwoman asked in Yscali. She had a thick accent, probably local.

“Yes. Has a Mentish man with one arm arrived?”

The woman shook her head. “No, but we get many Ments here these days all going to Inys. A result of the Queen’s marriage, no doubt.”

Laya nodded. She knew of Queen Sabran’s marriage to Aubrecht Lievelyn. From Niclays’ testimony it seemed despite Aubrecht’s death in defence of his wife, the relationship between the Queendom of Inys and the Free State of Mentendon was still strengthened by the union. Laya hoped that strength would only help the budding relations with the East.

“In that case,” she continued, genially, “have you a room free for bed and board? My friend should arrive soon, and then we’ll be out of your hair.”

The barwoman cleaned an empty tankard with a dishrag. She leaned against the bar and assessed Laya.

“You speak Yscali well for a foreigner.”

“Yes. I am from Lasia but speak several languages including Mentish and Inysh. Perhaps this could be of use to you?”

The woman stared at Laya for a moment longer, and then grinned as if she had passed a test. “Alright. We’ve got some rooms upstairs. You can pick one for tonight and stay until your friend arrives. For a fee, of course.”

“Of course,” Laya said.

“And you can help out with the other foreigners round here. Haven’t had much chance to use languages in the last decade.”

The woman put down her tankard and dishrag and disappeared through an oak door. When she returned she plonked a bowl of stew in front of Laya.

Laya murmured her thanks and took a long draught of her ale. It was alright, but she much preferred wine or distilled spirits where she could get them. Further south in Yscali and Lasia these were plenty, but it seemed Perunta was influenced by its Inysh neighbour.

“If your friend’s a Ment, and you’re Lasian, you must be going to Inys. Have you already arranged travel?”

“Not yet,” Laya responded, “but if you could recommend a captain setting off for Perchling later this week then I should approach them at the port tomorrow.”

The woman appraised her once again, and Laya wondered if she took the measure of every guest in her tavern this way, or if something about Laya specifically called for it.

The woman gestured to the rowdy group. “You’ve heard of the _Rose Eternal?_ ”

Laya frowned. “Should I have?”

“Lasian,” the woman said to herself with a nod, “That there’s Captain Harlowe and his crew.”

Laya glanced over surreptitiously. Captain Harlowe was an imposing man with all the evidence of a wind-beaten life at sea, but with a softness in his features and limbs belying a genial manner. A woman beside him with burgundy hair – incidentally, the colour of Kumenga’s local wine – rested her arm over her knee which was propped up by a booted foot. Her hat was almost wide enough to shelter the man next to her. At the table with them were five or six other crewmembers. The woman caught Laya’s eye from under the brim of her hat. Laya turned back to the bar.

“He’s alright,” said the barwoman, who was refilling Laya’s tankard. “Genuine fellow even though he straddles the line of pirate and privateer. That’s who I’d give my money to anyway. Story goes he smuggled Yscalis out before the plague.”

Laya raised an eyebrow. “So you’re saying we should ask a pirate for a ride instead of seeking legitimate passage?”

“ _Privateer_ , love,” the woman corrected, with a stern look. “And yes. He’s fairer than the rest. And you look like you can handle yourself.”

Laya smiled again. She _could_ handle herself. However, coaxing Niclays onto another pirate ship would be nigh on impossible.

She felt the eyes of the red-head burning into her cheek.

“I’ll consider it, thank you,” she said to the barwoman, with a grateful nod and coin for the food and board. “My name is Laya Yidagé.”

The barwoman nodded, but didn’t give her own name. Yscalis had more reason than most to be distrustful, and Laya had met many similarly reticent characters on her journey.

The night went on, and Laya eventually pulled off her cloak and folded it over her arm in the warmth of the tavern. A fire flickered in the grate close by, and the masses of patrons swelled until the heat of bodies and laughter warmed her to her core.

She was mopping up the last of her stew with a hunk of bread when the redhead slid onto a stool beside her.

“You’ll be wanting passage to Perchling, then,” she said.

“You’re in Captain Harlowe’s crew?” Laya asked.

“Bos’n,” the woman confirmed, “Estina Melaugo. And you are?”

Two full tankards of ale pushed their way onto the bar before them. Melaugo sipped the froth off the top of hers. The bubbles settled quickly, leaving a little sheen on her top lip. Laya reached for her own tankard.

“Laya Yidagé,” she said. “My friend and I are on our way to Inys, but he hasn’t yet arrived in Perunta.”

Melaugo knocked her tankard against Laya’s with a smile. “Looks like you’re in luck, Laya Yidagé. A storm is set to pass across the Strait tomorrow so we won’t set off for Perchling for a few days yet.”

Melaugo had the unmistakeable face of a sailor; weathered noticeably by the sea but with a brightness in her olive skin sustained by the salt air. Freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. This close Laya could see the black paint encircling her eyes, and how her hair was freshly washed and tied at the base of her skull. A few greys spattered the red. While clearly younger than Laya, they were not too dissimilar in age or experience, and no doubt as boatswain of the _Rose Eternal_ Melaugo was a formidable woman.

Laya relaxed another degree. She had witnessed many punishments administered by quartermasters and boatswains in the Fleet of the Tiger Eye. She had seen the ripped flesh and vomit of the victims of keelhauling. She’d seen people so viciously flogged that birds preyed on them as they would carrion before they’d taken their last breath. She’d learned that with a leader as terrible as the Golden Empress you shouldn’t imagine only her and her right-hand would deal out torture. But Laya had also learnt how to read the crews of other pirate ships. This Melaugo and her companions seemed an altogether peaceful sort. Laya couldn’t imagine her ordering a keelhaul.

“Where in Yscali are you from?” Laya asked.

“Vazuva.”

Laya hummed. “I’ve not had the pleasure. My journey from Cárscaro was east of the Saurga mountains.”

“I imagine there is little to attract a traveller to Vazuva now,” Melaugo said, mournfully.

Laya frowned. “I thought Yscalin is rebuilding all of its cities?”

“Ah, but I haven’t seen my city since before Fýredel,” Melaugo explained. She lowered her voice on the High Western’s name, as if to speak it were to invoke him. “But you must tell me what has become of Cárscaro.”

“Much of the city still suffers,” said Laya, recalling the countless slums and ruins she had passed through, “but it’s still beautiful. As far as I can tell it’s a beacon for those who work the land, and great lavender fields stretch out south of the plain.”

Melaugo smiled. “That must have been a sight. Cárscaro was famous for its lavender fields when I was young, but they were scorched by Fýredel himself when he rose from the Dreadmount.”

Laya swallowed, and forcibly cast her own memory of the Dreadmount from her mind. She reached into the small pack she’d brought with her.

“Take this, Estina Melaugo,” she said. She couldn’t help a coy glance from under her lashes, even as she berated herself internally; she was far too old for flirtatious games, after all. Melaugo seemed apprehensive, but took the gift from Laya’s outstretched palm. It was a lavender pomander.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the Draconic Plague is long gone in these parts,” Melaugo said, with a quirk at her lips.

“There’s no harm in being cautious,” Laya countered, but then conceded; “A merchant foisted it upon me in Cárscaro. The lavender is from those very fields.” She touched Melaugo’s arm and the other woman’s gaze flickered to her in surprise. “Perhaps you can find more use for it than I.”

Melaugo’s eyelids flickered shut again and she pressed her nose to the pomander, inhaling its scent. She exhaled. Her fingers closed tightly around it, and rather than tie it around her neck in the customary way she tucked it in the pocket of her cloak.

“I thought Vazuva was Yscalin’s most superstitious city, but perhaps things have changed. It’s nice to smell the lavender again. Thank you.”

A little spark ignited in Laya’s chest. A genuine smile graced Melaugo’s mouth but she had cast her eyes downwards in the shadow of her hat. Laya imagined this woman rarely showed her emotions.

The both of them drained their tankards. The barwoman returned to refill them, but Melaugo pushed coins to cover them both across the wooden top with a shake of her head.

“You’ve got a room here, yes?” she asked Laya.

Laya nodded.

Melaugo raised an eyebrow.

“Well, are you going to show me it or not?”

*

Laya and Melaugo ran up the stairs like the youngsters they weren’t and found themselves in a darkened passageway with wooden beams brushing their heads. Melaugo was about a head taller than Laya and had to duck to save her hat being knocked away. At the end of the corridor a door stood open, and Melaugo led Laya to it.

“The Grapevine keeps its vacant rooms open so you can choose whichever one you want,” she explained.

The room was fairly standard for a tavern, Laya supposed. It featured a smallish bed, a nightstand, and a shuttered window which looked down upon the street the tavern fronted. Laya crossed the room to pull the shutters closed and ward off the chill wafting from the sea air. They resisted her touch, caught in a strong gust.

Behind her, Melaugo had shut the door and hung her wide-brimmed hat on a hook. Laya could see now that her hair greyed towards the roots and curled when dry. Melaugo then divested herself of her rapier, spyglass, and a pipe hanging from a brass chain on her neck. Laya discarded her own cloak, beaded jewellery, and pack in the corner. She lit the candle on the nightstand.

Melaugo settled confidently on the bed.

“You don’t waste time,” Laya laughed.

“No point acting coy and pissing about,” Melaugo said, flippantly. The flickering light of the candle exposed a scar beneath her left eye.

“At least take your boots off first,” Laya chided her. Melaugo’s grin widened, but she obligingly unlaced her polished boots. For a pirate/privateer, she was considerably well put-together. Laya couldn’t help but stare at her as she slid her boots from her muscled-calves. Her arms were strong and capable. This was a woman who climbed rigging and stocked a ship’s hull for a living.

Laya herself was fairly strong. She was short compared to Melaugo, but thickset with a sturdy frame and muscles tuned to fighting and knife-work. Old habits die hard, after all. She sat on the bed and unlaced her own boots before turning to regard Melaugo.

“Damsel save us,” Melaugo said, “if you’re this slow the whole night the _Rose_ will leave without us.”

Laya’s cheeks warmed at the taunt. “Alright, I confess, I’m a little out of practice.”

Melaugo pulled her down alongside her. “It’s like climbing a rig, it’ll come back to you. But if you’re nervous I can talk you through it.”

“I’m not _nervous-_ “

“Step one, we take _off_ our clothes-“

Laya pushed Melaugo onto her back. “ _Gods_ …“ she said, and then shook her head, speechless. Instead of talking she rose to her knees and brought her hands to Melaugo’s jerkin, undoing it with nimble fingers, pushing it off her shoulders, and pulling off her smock when she sat up.

“That’s more like it,” Melaugo said, approvingly. She grasped Laya’s hips over the batik wrap she wore and pulled her across to straddle her. Laya went willingly, bending down to kiss her with one hand tangled in her red hair.

Melaugo was gorgeous. Her face was several shades darker than her body from exposure to the weak Inysh sun, and her body was smooth and toned. Her nipples were the same burgundy-red almost-black as her hair.

Laya felt herself growing warm in the cold room, and she ran her hands over Melaugo’s arms which were pimpled with gooseflesh. She hummed into the kiss and Melaugo deepened it with an insistent tug at her back, slipping her tongue into Laya’s mouth and crushing noses against cheeks.

Laya reared up and unfastened the cloth tie at her shoulder, allowing her own clothing to fall away and pushing it to the floor with her foot. Estina raked her gaze down and dropped her hands to her own breeches.

“Melaugo, let me-“

“Ugh, please call me Estina. At least while we’re fucking.” Estina grimaced theatrically and Laya grinned.

“Estina then. Let me take these off.” She batted away Estina’s hands and knelt at her side again, watching in amusement as the woman reclined luxuriously on the small bed and raised her hips up into Laya’s touch. She couldn’t help but lean in for another kiss as she dropped her hand between Estina’s legs, pressing through her breeches.

Estina huffed an amused sound into her mouth and let her legs spread wider.

“It’s easier to get to with the breeches off,” she said.

“Apparently, it’s the journey that’s important, not the destination,” Laya replied.

“Let’s make it worth it then,” Estina challenged, and she pushed the silk band from Laya’s hair with insistent hands, allowing her cloud of black curls to spring forth and tickle her forehead.

Laya finally tugged off Estina’s breeches, and they quickly discarded the rest of their clothing to the swept floor of the room. Laya untucked the sheets from the bed and there was a brief moment where they caught underneath Estina, and then entangled Laya, before the two of them settled safely underneath.

“Gods, come here,” Estina said, and she attached herself to Laya like an insistent barnacle. Her leg snaked between Laya’s and her hand came to squeeze her bottom. Laya gasped into her mouth and hitched up her hips.

“That’s better, it’s cold in this room,” Estina complained. Her hands were callused from years of gripping rope, and the rough scrape of them sent shudders down Laya’s spine.

“Estina,” she groaned.

“Yeah. Come on.”

Laya pushed her back again and settled on top of her, lip to lip, breast to breast, hip to hip. Their feet tangled together. Estina was like a furnace, steadily heating the bed and the sheets. Her lightly furred thigh shot heat straight through Laya’s core. Laya rested her weight on her forearms and kissed across Estina’s jaw, inhaling the clean scent of soap and oils from the bathhouse. Estina cupped her breast and massaged it with one hand. A thumb teased her nipple into a peak. Fingertips ran teasingly down her spine in a feather-light touch.

Laya kissed the hollow just below Estina’s ear, and the woman rolled her hips up in response.

Estina didn’t seem to be too vocal beyond breathy exhalations and quips, but Laya felt the tremble in her muscles when she nosed down her neck, and she wanted to feel her seizing up and shaking on her fingers, under her thumb. She breathed heavily and then continued her path downwards, kissing over Estina’s collarbones and between her breasts.

“Step two, play with my breasts,” Estina said.

Laya shot a stern glance to meet Estina’s glittering eyes. She licked her thumb and brushed it firmly over a nipple, and then exposed it to the chill air as she leant in again for another kiss. This did get a quiet moan from Estina, low in her throat, and she arched up again to press her chest into Laya’s.

“Just lie back, Estina,” Laya said. She gripped her breast and this time hitched her thigh between Estina’s legs whilst flicking her thumb over her nipple. They rolled their hips against each other and Estina curved her calf round the bend of Laya’s knee, exposing herself and drawing the woman in closer. Laya hummed in satisfaction, feeling herself growing wet where course hair rubbed together, and she ducked her head down to suck Estina’s reddened nipple into her mouth.

“Oh,” Estina gasped. She buried both hands in Laya’s hair and writhed at the scrape of teeth and tongue over the abused flesh. Her nipple had stiffened into a peak as solid as the Dreadmount. “Fuck, Laya.” A long hiss scraped between Estina’s teeth and Laya hummed as she released her nipple, leisurely nosing around her breast and mouthing at the sweet curve of it.

Estina’s hand snuck down beneath the sheets; past Laya’s hip and cheek and over the rippled skin of her back upper thigh. She slid the fingers inwards where the skin grew hot and dense with damp hair. Laya groaned at the touch of those cautious fingertips. She bit at Estina’s nipple and the woman gasped, dropping her fingers down further and meeting sensitive skin and wet lips from the back. Laya spread her own legs wider and Estina’s fingers slipped deeper inside, a questing pressure at that sensitive opening, and so achingly far from her clit.

Laya sat up abruptly.

Estina panted below her. Her hair was haloed on the pillow and teeth had scarred her bottom lip. Her mouth glistened. She smiled a slow, easy smile, and hitched her knee up into a shallow incline, pulling Laya back down and urging her to rock against her thigh.

“Oh…” Laya breathed. Estina’s neck was hot where she buried her face and kissed the warm flesh. She could feel herself leaving wet marks on Estina’s leg and the thought sent her shuddering into the woman’s embrace. Before she knew it there was a hand at the swell of her belly, catching against her navel and following the curve down, down, and then fingers slid back into her wet heat again, pressing and squeezing either side of her clit, and she ground down insistently against them.

“Laya…fuck…” Estina murmured little exclamations into her hair as she fingered her, and Laya moaned at the encouragement. “You’re really wet…”

Then the finger withdrew and Laya moaned a complaint, but when she looked Estina was holding them up to the flickering candlelight, watching the fluid glisten on her skin. Laya burned with a deep, enduring flush. She met Estina’s eyes, and then took the fingers into her mouth, licking the musky taste from them and sliding her tongue down to the sensitive webbing.

“Fuck. I want to get you off. Right now.”

Estina’s hoarse voice was exponentially hoarser, and the lust in the woman’s eyes sent Laya’s stomach lurching. She found herself pushed back into the mattress and Estina’s head between her legs, fingers plunging back in deeper and more solid than before. A thumb came up to press against her clit and she pushed her hips down to take those long, nimble fingers in further.

“That’s good?” Estina asked.

“Yes,” Laya said. “Yes.”

The sheets had puddled down around her hips with their rolling about, but she burned too hot to notice if the room was still chilled. She cupped Estina’s face with her hand and stared down at her, watched that wrist moving when she hitched her hips.

“Oh…” she moaned, “Touch me, touch-“

“Like this?” Estina asked. There was pure concentration on her face as she brought slick fingers up to roll against Laya’s clit, as if bringing her pleasure was her most urgent goal.

“ _Yes._ ” Laya said, and now she was rocking her hips in earnest. Each brush of Estina’s fingers around her clit made her shudder with pleasure like lances up her spine. Estina’s thumb rolled in circles, and then she traced her nail gently under the hood before applying pressure from the top and Laya could only groan and urge her head down to join her hand, craving that smart mouth and hot tongue. And oh, _oh,_ it was just as wonderful as she thought. White hot sparks zipped up her spine at the flickering tongue against her lips, teasing at her opening, and then licking broad stripes over and into her. Estina’s nose pressed against one side of her clit and her thumb at the other and Laya clenched down on her tongue, flinging her free arm up above her forehead to cover her eyes.

“Faster, Estina-“

And then Estina was tonguing at her clit and thrusting three fingers inside her, filling her up and crooking them to match her hot wet circles and Laya clenched down, clenched down and gripped Estina’s red hair and she was coming, coming with raised hips and shaking groans onto that clever tongue and tight around those questing fingers.

She slumped back with deep, heaving exhales. She felt as if she were blind at sea for the first time in years – swaying and anchorless.

She blinked open her eyes.

“Satisfied, Mistress Yidagé?” Estina enquired, all false formality and proud smirk. She wiped the slick from her mouth with the back of her hand. The black paint at her eye had smudged into a crease.

Laya couldn’t help but laugh. It had been so long since she’d lain with a beautiful woman like Estina, and there she was, lying on top of her like a cat who’d got the cream.

“Very,” she said.

Estina’s fingers were still between her legs, trailing over her inner thighs and stroking the full flesh of her lips with a gentle touch. Laya stretched into the comforting touch, and wrapped her arms around Estina’s waist.

“Your turn,” she said, and shuffled over to make room for Estina to lie back once again. The woman did so, and Laya wasted no time in moving down to return the favour. She parted those muscled thighs and pushed them back to look her fill.

“You’re not just going to look…” Estina said, pointedly.

It was a stimulating sight, Laya thought. Estina’s hair here was even darker; almost black and curled wetly. Laya pressed a kiss to one of her thighs and released it, instead using her fingers to spread Estina’s lips and trace the delicate skin at her opening. Estina pushed her shoulders back into the bed and lifted into the touch. She grasped Laya’s other wrist and left crescents with her nails.

“How do you like it?” Laya asked. She dipped a finger in a little deeper, and bit her lip in arousal when the tip of it met clenching heat.

Estina laughed. “What do you mean? I can go through the steps-“

“Do you like being fingered?” Laya asked, holding two fingers up in demonstration.

“I like it better than nothing,” Estina said, pointedly.

Clearly she wasn’t going to be much help. Laya preferred communication when she lay with someone to ensure they were truly pleasured, but she’d just have to do her best. She shuffled herself deeper into the bed until she was comfortable, and lowered her mouth to Estina’s vulva while bringing her thighs up and around her shoulders.

Gods wept…she’d forgotten what it was like.

She pulled back for a moment to curl her hand around Estina’s thigh and lift the hair above her clit, giving herself better access, and then she circled her tongue around it and teased at the tip. Estina tensed under her hands, thighs turning rock solid. Laya experimented a little to see what would have the best reaction; first a flat, long lick, then sucking, then little flicking licks over her clit. She dipped her thumb past Estina’s pubic hair and held the pressure just on the hood, causing the woman to gasp and roll her hips futilely.

“Okay, fuck, yes I like being fingered,” she gasped.

Laya obliged, and brought her hand back around to slip two fingers inside. They slid in easily, coated in slick and sheathed in hot, tight muscle. She couldn’t help but groan. In all of her shifting the sheets had bunched between her thighs and they teased at her as she rocked against them; not enough for purchase but enough to stir her want. With renewed vigour she slid her tongue down to her fingers, licking at the wet skin of Estina’s vulva and thrusting gently. Estina’s hand left her wrist and then both were at the back of her neck, guiding her up to Estina’s clit once again.

Laya could hear the brush of Estina’s hair against the pillow as she tossed against it in pleasure. She scooted back and shoved some bedding under Estina’s hips before leaning down again, this time with a palm flat on her stomach to keep her still. She pressed kisses from her vulva to her knee and back again and thrust her fingers back in. She withdrew them and spread the slick up to Estina’s clit, rubbing firm circles over the head and ignoring the woman’s gaps of _faster_ , _fuck me!_ Eventually she leaned up for a thorough, plundering kiss as her thumb continued its maddening circles.

“You must be quiet, unless you would like everyone in Perunta to hear,” Laya teased.

“Fuck them,” Estina spat. The sound of the expletive in her husky voice sent a shiver through Laya, and she thrust her fingers back in again and curled them, massaging until Estina’s eyes went wide and her hips lifted clear off the bed.

“Oh!”

Laya kissed her once again, deeply, sweetly, savouring the taste of Estina’s moans on her tongue. She brought her fingers back to Estina’s clit and rubbed as the woman’s arms and legs entangled with hers and she tensed and shuddered and panted her climax into her neck.

Eventually she stopped trembling, and Laya withdrew her hand and lay next to her. She left one leg between Estina’s, one arm across the woman’s waist. Even if the bed had been comfortably large enough for the two of them she would have done so.

“Satisfied, Mistress Melaugo?” she asked.

“Very,” said Estina, and leaned in to share a kiss.

For a while they lay there, trading soft kisses in the candlelight. The sweat cooled on their bodies.

Laya was content, but habits were hard to break and she was loath to fall asleep with a stranger in her room – a pirate, no less. Thankfully, Estina seemed to be in the same mind, for when both of their hearts had slowed she slipped from the sheets and redressed herself, situating her rapier, knife, spyglass, and pipe at their rightful places as well as a cache of hidden weaponry Laya had missed before. Finally, she placed her wide-brimmed hat back on her head.

She was beautiful.

Laya drew the sheets about her waist. Estina doffed her hat.

“Thanks,” she said, simply, “I’ll see you around, Laya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Samantha Shannon has said that [Lasia is based on the Kingdom of Kongo](https://sshannonauthor.tumblr.com/post/185884239693/im-a-little-over-500-pages-into-priory-and) \- I did a little research into the dress of the Kingdom in the 16th century, since Inys was based on 16th century England. It was _very_ hard to find any information about the clothing of ordinary people in the Kingdom and all I found were mentions of batik garments, and a MoMa PDF mentioning raffia cloth in the eighteenth century. Laya is described as wearing a cloak, beads, and boots in TPOTOT but I like to think she dresses in traditional Lasian clothing after her return to Kumenga.


	2. in poison places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from _Young Volcanoes_ by Fall Out Boy.

Niclays frowned at the carriage door. His journey from Brygstad had been delayed by two days and now he travelled to Perunta without assistance. Of course, the driver – employed by Princess Ermuna herself – had been kind enough to load his small trunk into the carriage and offer assistance in climbing down whenever Niclays needed to relieve himself (which he refused every time), but all in all the journey would have been a lot easier and less humiliating if his personal assistant had been present as planned. Unfortunately, the young lad’s mother had taken ill and he had ridden to his home city of Spilda with haste.

Niclays could not begrudge him his absence. He knew all too well the importance to be at a loved one’s side during sickness. Even so, the border crossing had been galling, and not only because of the rocky land where the mountains petered into the sea. Leaving Mentendon had felt like another exile. Niclays had peered out of the carriage once they were five hours into Yscalin, unable to stop himself, and found that the Dreadmount was obscured by other peaks and a thick covering of white cloud. He’d still spent much time recovering himself that evening.

More than once on this journey he wished he’d agreed to meet Laya in Inys instead.

They’d reached the outskirts of Perunta the previous evening, and once Niclays conceded to the driver’s advice to rest the horses they found accommodation at a small guesthouse. The owner had treated them with caution, but upon learning they were sent by the High Princess Ermuna of Mentendon he obligingly fed and watered them and stabled their horses for the night.

Now the carriage fought its way through storm-ridden Perunta. The horses’ hooves were deafening with their clatter on the cobblestones, and despite the horrific weather the driver was constantly urging pedestrians out from under the carriage wheels. Niclays was just thankful that the High Princess’s horses were trained well enough not to spook. They pulled up beside the _Grapevine_ tavern with a shudder. Niclays was disinclined to leave the carriage. Unfortunately, the driver had retrieved his trunk and offered him a hand down before he knew it. This time, Niclays accepted the help. His boots sunk deep into a pool of water as he alighted, and he spared a moment for thanks to the Saint for his foresight. The first thing he had done when he received income from his professorship was to buy a new pair of boots.

The door of the tavern slammed shut behind him just as lightning split the sky. Niclays shivered. He was glad for the solid ground beneath his feet.

The tavern was sparsely populated. It was mid-morning in the middle of a vicious storm, so Niclays was surprised that there were any patrons at all. However, two or three individuals supped at some kind of broth or a tankard of ale and kept to themselves.

A woman approached him. “Your room’s ready for you upstairs,” she said. She spoke Mentish with such a thick Northern Yscalin accent Niclays could barely understand her.

Niclays startled. “I’ve only just arrived,” he said, dripping all over the floor. Somehow the rain had penetrated through his cloak and shirt despite only being exposed to it for a handful of moments. The driver carried his trunk into the tavern.

“Your friend said to look out for a one-armed Ment. I’m guessing that’s you,” the woman said with raised eyebrows. Her arms were crossed over her chest.

Niclays grimaced. “That would be me. And where is Mistress Yidagé?”

Despite his tendency to wallow whenever he got grouchy, Niclays knew Laya’s spirit would do him some good. The wet cloak cooled against his skin and he shivered.

“Busy,” the woman said, bluntly. “You’ll get chilled in that. Come with me.”

Without waiting for a response the woman walked over to a little staircase set behind a partition wall, and impatiently gestured for Niclays and the carriage driver to follow. The driver grimaced at the thought of leaving the carriage and horses unattended, but Niclays ignored him. After all, he could hardly heft the trunk up the stairs himself.

All in all, it was a homely set up. After he’d situated himself in his little room and the driver had gratefully bid him farewell, the woman (he assumed the owner of the tavern, despite having skipped introductions) brought him a bucket of steaming water, rose oil, and a sponge, sternly instructing him to ‘make use of it before you catch your death.’

And make use of it he did.

It was tricky, washing oneself with only one arm. Niclays was grateful for the wooden floor since there was a lot of spillage; he spent most of the time balancing precariously against his nightstand or the legs of the bed. He hung his sopping cloak on the hook to dry, and dressed himself in clean clothes from his trunk; breeches, a shirt tied at the left arm below the elbow, boots, and a spare winter cloak. It was getting harder to resist the cold with age.

Niclays was descending the stairs, bucket in hand, when Laya turned up.

“Old Red!” she said, overjoyed.

Niclays grumbled as he hobbled down the last few steps and plonked the bucket down with a thud. Laya embraced him and kissed his cheek.

“You’ve not yet reached the Orchard of Divinities then?” she teased.

“You are so eager to be rid of me?” he asked. “Sorry to disappoint you, Laya, for I think I’ve got a bit of life left.”

She smiled, and picked up the bucket before he could protest. They walked down a narrow corridor towards the back of the tavern.

“I remember when you bid goodnight to me, believing it to be the last of your days,” Laya said.

Niclays huffed, and Laya touched his shoulder gently. It felt like an awful nightmare. That night under the oppressive black sky, trapped on a ship with an inscrutable puzzle and a metaphorical blade at his throat. And even then, the Golden Empress had almost taken his life. He traced his scar absently.

Laya tossed the contents of the bucket into the rain-washed courtyard, and set it beside the door. She turned to him.

“Really, Niclays, I’m glad to see you in these spirits. You are like a new man.”

Niclays scoffed, but he couldn’t deny it. It wasn’t just his imprisonment aboard _The Pursuit_ that felt like a distant nightmare, but somehow the entire decade he spent in exile had cooked itself into another lifetime. He could barely imagine a life without the university, without visits from Aleidine, and his weekly seminars with Alarkis. Purumé and Eizaru had not yet visited, but in their letter they had made much the same observations as Laya. In the cobbled streets and amongst the stalls and merchants of Brygstad, Niclays felt his very blood come alive.

The Princess Ermuna had granted his request for professorship at the University of Brygstad, complete with funds for his alchemical research, – no longer on the elixir of life – a permanent assistant, and comfortable housing, in return for lectures and committed academic contribution on the University’s Eastern studies, and an advisory position on Eastern political affairs. This suited Niclays well enough as he could avoid the court, but compiling his own accounts of the East proved to be more difficult than expected. There was Niclays-in-exile, and then there was Niclays Roos of Mentendon.

He’d spent many an evening beside Jannart’s tomb trying to decode himself.

“Mentendon has been good to me,” he admitted to Laya, “far better than I deserve. And Aleidine has been wonderful. But she was always a forgiving woman.”

“She loves you,” Laya said in complete seriousness. “Not as Jannart did, but just as strongly. Neither of them would have wanted you to torture yourself forever, Old Red.”

They’d turned back into the public floor, and after a few words with the barwoman Laya led Niclays to a vacant table holding two steaming cups of Yscalin tea. He held his hand over the steam and let the warmth suffuse him.

“Your belief in me means more than I can say, Laya. But now, enough about me. Please, tell me about Lasia. You’ve said so much in your letters and I can hardly keep ahead of it all.”

And so Laya told him about Lasia as they sipped their tea. Although he already knew from her letters, she told him of her slow recuperation in Nzene as she was tended to by the doctors of the High Ruler Kagudo. She spoke of fever induced dreams of Fýredel and the Dreadmount, and how even now she would see red veins strike across her vision both awake and dreaming. She told him of the beauty of the Godsblades, and how they were perhaps the only mountains she would feel safe in again, cocooned rather than entrapped. The barwoman slid a board onto the table decorated with morsels of food arranged in clusters; a ramekin of olives, salted and diced fish, bread with a thick crust and pools of herb oil, goats cheese, rosebutter, slices of cured ham, plums and honeyed pears, and even a handful of Mentish sugared quinces. They both ate ravenously, and all the while Laya illustrated her travel to Kumenga. The Lasian basin, she said, was one of the lushest and most beautiful places in the world, and when Niclays did her the honour of visiting her home country they were to visit Yikala first.

And that was when Laya’s eyes dropped. Upon her return to Kumenga she’d found the city foreign to her, with not a soul she recognised there after the decades she’d been away. Even so, she had rented a room and taken a stable job at the High Ruler’s Kumenga embassy. Niclays remembered her promise to him that her family would recompense any Ersyri smuggler who brought them home. Perhaps they would have fared worse had they carried out that plan.

“The last few decades have taken their toll on me,” Laya continued, licking honey from her fingers, “by all rights I should be glad of my return to Kumenga, and I am, but your letter it gave me an excuse to travel again.”

Niclays swallowed his mouthful of ham and rosebutter. “What’s the point in speaking Mentish and Inysh if you never go to Mentendon or Inys? And my dear, once you’ve seen Brygstad I doubt you’ll want to leave. I couldn’t imagine it.”

Laya laughed and nudged the dish of plums towards him. “Of course you would say that. No, Kumenga is my home, but I am glad to travel with you, Old Red. Now, what business do you have in Ascalon? I can’t believe you’d go there by choice.”

“I’d sooner stage a mutiny on _The Pursuit_ ,” Niclays joked, darkly. “Unfortunately my professorship came with the condition that I would advise on Eastern trade. No matter how many times I tell the High Princess that I was in exile, she insists on my ‘expertise’ of Seiiki. They’ve been far more reluctant to open borders than Queen Sabran hoped, although I could have warned her as much from the beginning.”

Niclays couldn’t help his venomous inflection on the name of the Berethnet Queen.

“Well, while you’re killing yourself in the Ascalon courts, I think I’ll abscond. I want to take a look around Perchling and Summerport.”

“Ah,” Niclays said.

Laya peered at him over a piece of bread topped with fish. “Ah?” she asked.

“There may be a slight problem with your plan,” Niclays said, staring intently at a quince.

“What’ve you got yourself into now, Old Red?” Laya asked.

“You, actually. When the Unceasing Emperor heard of an interpreter who sailed on _The Pursuit_ -“

“ _Niclays-_ ” Laya groaned.

“-he decided your knowledge would be invaluable to establishing a trade route,” finished Niclays, effectively chagrined. “If I could have prevented it, I would have.”

“Stay away from Kawontay, that’s all they need to know,” Laya said, unhappily.

Niclays grimaced. “It’s almost impossible to get a ship to the Empire or to Seiiki-“

“You’re not trading with Seiiki-“

“-without crossing the Golden Empress’s territory.”

“I’m not a navigator, Niclays. I probably know less about the _Fleet_ ’s territory than you do!”

“Even so, the Emperor believes you’ll be useful to the cause.”

Laya crossed her arms in a rare display of upset. A line creased her brow. “So you summoned me to Perunta to sell me out to three world leaders?”

“Yes,” Niclays said, regret coursing through him.

She sighed. “If I didn’t know you, I’d think you had ill-intent. Alright, I’ll go. But don’t expect me to be much help. _And_ if we’re making the trip to Inys then we’re sightseeing while we’re there.”

“Agreed,” said Niclays, relief rushing through him. He extended his hand to shake on it, and Laya screwed her face up in disgust at the plum juice and crystallised sugar on his fingers.

Niclays’ lip twitched, and they burst into laughter.

*

The storm blew itself out the next afternoon. The streets were running with rainwater, and many of the market stalls beside the port had to be repaired where the fabric had torn in the wind. 

Laya was sat on Niclays’ bed as he gathered folded clothes and documents and tucked them precisely in his trunk.

“How is the High Princess getting to Inys?” she asked him.

“A ship from Zeedeur to Summerport. They should land the day after tomorrow.”

Niclays thought about the arrowhead city of Zeedeur. Perhaps, although he hadn’t admitted it to himself, the port was another reason he had not wanted to travel with Ermuna. The idea of sailing through those canals – beside the tall traditional buildings with their bell gables and paths lined with elm trees, the Port Sanctuary spire poking above like a beacon – that thought was too much to bear. His foolish heart. Even speaking the name of Jannart’s duchy was painful.

“It would have been far easier for you to have met me in Inys,” Laya pointed out, but to Niclays’ relief she left her thoughts unspoken. She knew by now exactly who Jannart had been, once upon a time, and she would have put two and two together immediately.

Niclays placed the last of his possessions in his trunk (a paperweight which he used to hold down paper as he wrote, being unable to do that anymore).

Once Laya had packed her own things she had folded Niclays’ clothes and gathered his possessions on his bed to spare his arm and leg. Like with the bucket of water the day before, she had neatly avoided any implication that her assistance resulted from his disability, even though they both knew it did. While Niclays could have done the work himself, it would have tired him out quickly at his age, lack of cane, and with the use of only one arm. He disliked Laya doing the work of his assistant, but he marvelled at how skilfully she made the situation seem ordinary.

Thankfully she’d let him pack his case himself. He was still able enough for that.

He knelt and latched his trunk shut, and internally yelled in delight when he rose again without even a twinge in his knee.

“Speaking of ships. What is the name of the ship you’ve bought us passage on?”

An indecipherable expression flickered across Laya’s face.

“The _Rose Eternal?_ ” she said.

“Excuse me,” said Niclays, “I must have misheard you.”

“You know of it, then,” Laya said with a sigh.

Niclays was aghast. “Laya, the _Rose Eternal_ is a pirate ship!”

“Privateers, apparently.”

“A technicality! You of all people boarding a pirate ship of your own free will…”

“They’re a good sort, Old Red.”

“So you’ve met them too,” Niclays said.

“I spoke to the boatswain last night,” Laya confirmed. “Estina Melaugo.”

Niclays sighed, and sat beside Laya on the bed. “She is after my time, I’m afraid. I assume Harlowe is still the captain?”

“Yes.”

Niclays sighed again, mind racing. “He had an affair with the Queen Mother, you know.”

Laya made a face.

Niclays hummed. “That’s why the ship is named the _Rose Eternal_ , after Rosarian IV. She gifted it to him.”

“And has he a good relationship with Sabran?” Laya asked, curiously.

“I do not know, since I have been in exile for most of her life. In fact, I was exiled on that very boat.” He sneered. “The _Principle Secretary_ likes to get rid of exiles that way, since the _Rose_ has a thin veneer of legitimacy.”

Laya laid a hand on Niclays’ elbow. “I can find us another Captain. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have chosen the _Rose_. Let’s go to the docks and see what we can find.”

*

There were no ships sailing to Perchling.

The Peruntan locals were busy fixing the storm damage, which had unfortunately been severe in the poorer parts of town with the most rundown housing. The rest of the merchants were all travelling the East coast of Yscalin, aside from one ship which set out for Hróth the next day.

“I’m sorry, Niclays,” Laya said, defeated. “The _Rose_ is our only option.”

Laya could hear the stifled groan in Niclays’ throat, but he nodded in acceptance, which she thought was rather gracious of him.

At that moment, a man climbed down a gangway from the _Rose Eternal_ and stared at them down the jetty. Laya couldn’t be sure, but from his bearing she assumed it was Captain Harlowe from the tavern two nights before. She nodded to him, and they walked down to meet him.

“You must be our new passengers,” the man said once they were in earshot. Here in the bright light of day Laya could see the deep pits on his face, a sure sign of smallpox when he was younger.

“Laya Yidagé,” Laya said.

“Gian Harlowe, Captain of the _Rose Eternal_ ,” Harlowe responded in kind. He turned to Niclays and squinted.

“Niclays Roos,” Niclays said.

Harlowe’s eyebrows shot up.

“Doctor Roos. I barely recognise you. I heard in Mentendon that you were captured by pirates, and I’d wager there’s a lot more to the story than that.” His eyes fell to Niclays cloak, where only one forearm peeked out.

Harlowe gestured towards the _Rose_ and bid them follow him.

It was a sturdy ship. Gigantic, with eighteen sails flying high, iron clad and made for war. It had the battle scars to show it. Laya was struck, then, by the figurehead, which in contrast to the weather-beaten shell of the ship was gleaming and clean, as if it had only just been finished. It depicted a woman with long black hair and piercing green eyes. Her body ended in a golden tail, although in her decades on the sea Laya had never seen merfolk with her own eyes.

“Is that Rosarian?” she asked Niclays in a whisper.

He raised his brows and nodded.

Laya and Harlowe each took and end of Niclays’ trunk, which was fairly light by all standards, and lifted it up the gangway and onto the deck. She offered a hand to Niclays and he joined them there.

“We set sail for Perchling at first light tomorrow,” Harlowe told them. “I’ve a small cabin set up for the two of you. You’re lucky the berth is packed, Mistress Yidagé, or you’d have been in a hammock with the crew.”

Laya thought that sounded miles better than many of her sleeping arrangements over the years, but didn’t voice the thought. She was already thankful Harlowe had seen fit to accommodate Niclays with a mattress.

Harlowe left the two of them to get settled in, but it was only a few minutes before another figure appeared in the doorway. A figure in a polished boots, a quality jerkin, and a wide-brimmed hat.

“Estina,” Laya said with a smile.

“Laya,” Estina replied in greeting. She turned to Niclays. “Harlowe says you’re the alchemist who got kidnapped by pirates. You’re gaining a bit of a reputation around the Mentish ports, Roos, you’d better watch your back.”

Niclays grimaced. “Thank you for your comforting words, Mistress Melaugo,” he said, dripping sarcasm.

Estina grinned, and winked conspiratorially at Laya. “You’ll get your rations in an hour or so. Afterwards, I’ll be in the hold.” And with that, she disappeared.

There was a moment of silence.

“Laya,” Niclays began, “You could have just told me about Estina Melaugo.”

“There’s nothing to tell, Old Red,” Laya said.

“So you won’t be going to the hold this evening?”

Laya cleared her throat and met Niclays’ gaze with her own sparkling eyes. “Well, it would be rude to refuse the offer.”

*

Laya had gone to the hold the previous evening. Estina had tasted of oranges and wine, and although it was not the most romantic of settings, it was the most private place on the ship. Afterwards, they had shared Estina’s wineskin, and Laya had eaten an orange from a crate of citrus fruits. When they’d ascended back up the ship they’d received several hoots from the sleeping quarters.

Laya was surprised to find she liked Estina, even if their natures made them somewhat wary of the other.

It was the _Rose Eternal_ ’s first day of sail on the Swan Strait. The storm had fully cleared now and it had left the sky a pleasant duck-egg blue, dotted with fluffy clouds. The sea was green and the crew on the weather deck were cheery. Laya had found her sea legs again immediately, whereas Niclays had been holed up in his cabin with a bucket for the best part of the morning. She privately thought his sickness was less to do with the movement of the ship and more the simple fact that he was on one.

The day passed the same way most days on a ship did; filled with the monotony of people going about their tasks, a lot of silence, the odd conversation, and a lot of staring out at the horizon. The one thing the _Rose Eternal_ was missing was the constant sense of impending doom.

Niclays finally stumbled up onto the weather deck at just past noon.

“The legend appears,” Estina joked.

Niclays still looked green about the gills, and stubbornly ignored her. Captain Harlowe was on the quarterdeck and Estina saw he was laughing. She fetched him some fresh water to swill out his mouth, and drink from. It wouldn’t do to have him wither away before they even got to Inys.

Estina joined the two of them at the railing with a cocked hip and her legs crossed at the ankles. It was so obvious, and yet Laya couldn’t help but find it endearing.

“Doctor Roos,” Estina said, “I think it’s time you shared your story with us.”

Niclays groaned, and Laya couldn’t help but stiffen. It wasn’t that she was hiding her past, but, well…she was hiding it. Sailing with the Golden Empress was not something one shouted about while hosted on another ship.

Before either of them could even react, Captain Harlowe was at Niclays’ side. He was smoking from a clay pipe.

“Estina’s right. You’ve got an interesting tale there, Roos.”

Niclays grimaced and shared a look with Laya. She wasn’t sure if he understood her or not. He took another gulp of fresh water.

“You know I was captured by pirates,” he began, “but you don’t know it was because I was with a dragon at the time.”

Estina straightened up at that. “A wyrm?” she asked, shocked.

“An Eastern dragon,” said Harlowe.

Niclays nodded. A small crowd had clustered around him to hear the story of the one-armed man.

“I was exiled to Orisima by Queen Sabran a long time ago, Mistress Melaugo. Such is my luck that when I was finally allowed into Seiiki I was caught up in the dragon trade.”

Harlowe blew out another gust of smoke. Laya couldn’t decipher Estina’s expression. Disgust perhaps. She was Yscali, after all.

“I was only spared because I…I had a paper in my possession. It turned out to be the last clue to the location of the Island of Komoridu. That’s why the Golden Empress did not slay me where I stood.”

Harlowe whistled, and Estina’s mouth dropped in genuine shock. There were mutterings amongst the group of crewmembers, amongst them the Quartermaster, Gautfred Plume, who was regarding Niclays thoughtfully.

“Komoridu,” Harlowe said. There was a crease between his brows and a pensive quality to his voice.

Laya shifted from foot to foot. Niclays had drawn the crowd’s attention properly now, and each face was hungry for more gossip to trade off in the next port.

Estina shook her head. “No. No-one captured by the Golden Empress gets out alive. You’d have been fish food long ago if this were true.”

Niclays frowned, irritated. “What could I hope to achieve by making this up? You’ve already said yourself that I’m developing a reputation in Mentendon.”

Estina shrugged.

“Go on,” said Harlowe.

“I decoded the map and we sailed to Komoridu,” said Niclays.

“Just like that,” Estina said, disbelieving.

Niclays inclined his head. “I couldn’t have done it without Laya.”

Laya closed her eyes.

“She befriended me and kept the Empress from killing me many times over.”

“You sailed with the Golden Empress?” Estina asked Laya, aghast. “You were in her confidence?”

Laya stepped back, and she saw the realisation flash across Niclays’ face. Harlowe was staring at her, straight-backed.

Suddenly there was a sword at Laya’s throat.

The sheath for Estina’s rapier hung empty at her side; the sharp, polished blade of it poised to unravel Laya’s skin. Laya flinched immediately towards her knife, and then let her hand drop. She stood stock still, moored between the deck and the blade.

“I did,” she said, and at the twist of Estina’s mouth she hurried to continue; “unwillingly. I was captured in a raid on a ship from Carmentum many years ago.”

“The Golden Empress doesn’t show mercy to her conquests,” Captain Harlowe said.

“I pleaded for my life in Lacustrine. She used me as her translator.”

“Why would the Golden Empress need a translator?” Estina asked, a harsh, horrible grating in her voice. “She speaks every language she needs.”

“A gambit to make enemies underestimate her.”

Estina’s eyes were steel. The shadow cast by her hat deepened the lines around her eyes. Niclays gasped sharply beside Laya, and it when she felt a warm trickle at her collarbone she realised her skin had given beneath the blade.

“So you were behind her murderous schemes? You helped her torture and pillage-“

“Do you think me a fool?” Laya interrupted, madly. Estina’s knuckles were stark on the hilt of her sword and her teeth were clenched, and Laya knew that this woman would not hesitate to kill her if she implicated herself. She was scared, and for a moment her mind flashed back to the Komoridu beach; kneeling in the sand at the point of her own knife in Ghonra’s hand. She wanted to shake her head to rid herself of the memory, but that would only hasten her death.

“Would you have had me stand against the Empress?” she asked, “Submit myself to a keelhauling or a lashing until my lifeblood stained the deck?” Her voice quavered. Her splayed fingers trembled between them.

Niclays stepped forward with a hesitant gait, and Laya shot him a panicked glance from the corner of her eye.

“Nic-“

“If I may,” he said, “my testimony may not count for much among pirates and privateers, but Laya Yidagé is the most kind-hearted person I have known in my life, and that has been a long and tired one.” He raised his upper arm. “The Golden Empress took my arm.” He undid the button of his cloak, revealing the gaping mouth of his neck. “She tried to take my life.” Laya saw that he was shaking, but he stood tall upon the unpredictable deck of the _Rose Eternal_. “From the moment I was imprisoned on _The Pursuit_ Laya befriended me. She advised me on how to stay alive and planned our escape on the island of Komoridu. Mistress Melaugo, I beg you to lower your sword because you will not find a more honourable person than Laya Yidagé in the entirety of Virtudom.”

Estina had been lowering her sword as Niclays spoke, but as he pled for Laya’s life she let it fall. Laya stumbled backwards and her hand flew to the wound at her neck. She couldn’t tear her gaze from Estina’s. The woman was angry, conflicted, ashamed.

Laya did not know that her knees would hold much longer.

Captain Harlowe stepped between the two of them. He brushed Estina’s forearm with his fingers as if to placate her, but his eyes were wary and he did not remove his gaze from Laya.

“That was a powerful speech, Doctor Roos. I expect you’re a great professor.” He raised his voice to the crew; “everyone back to work.” When no-one moved, he grimaced and raised his voice; “I said _everyone back to work!”_

With some grumbling but quick feet, the crew of the _Rose Eternal_ returned to their positions on deck and rigging.

Harlowe lowered his voice and spoke only for the hearing of Niclays, Laya, and Estina. “We’ve run into the Fleet of the Tiger Eye in the past, and I for one don’t want to repeat the experience. How can we trust you?”

Laya and Niclays exchanged a glance. Her hand was bloodied, but the wound was only surface deep and not serious.

Niclays was the one to speak.

“Kalyba took us from Komoridu to the Dreadmount. She saved my life to use me to kill a Lady of Queen Sabran’s Bedchamber.”

Harlowe frowned. “Now you tell me you did Kalyba’s bidding, too.”

“I did not,” Niclays stated. “I haven’t done many things in my life to be proud of, but that was one of them, Captain Harlowe.”

“And you?” Harlowe asked Laya, “How can we be sure the Golden Empress won’t come looking for you?”

“She believes me dead. And if she ever did find me, I’d be as good as.”

Harlowe pursed his lips, and flicked his gaze to Estina. Her expression was inscrutable.

“We land in Perchling after noon tomorrow. I suggest you two make yourself scarce until then. And get that wound looked at,” Harlowe said, gesturing to the bowels of the ship.

Niclays seized her arm and tugged her below decks.

*

“I’m not sorry.”

Laya whirled around to see Estina standing behind her, arms crossed. In defence or anger, Laya did not know. After the ship’s doctor had cleaned Laya’s wound she’d retreated to the hull, finding a quiet spot amongst the ship’s cargo to think. 

“What?”

“I didn’t choose this life,” Estina said. She hadn’t moved from where she stood at the base of the stairs. A weak shaft of light from the deck penetrated the dusk of the ship’s belly, falling on Estina and surrounding her with dust-motes. It was a stark contrast to the dark corner Laya stood in. “When Fýredel took Cárscaro other High Westerns spread across Yscalin, razing the forests and fields and leaving the land barren. Vazuva’s High Western was Valeysa the Harrower.”

Laya closed her eyes for a brief moment. A lump rose in her throat. “Valeysa the Harrower was at the Abyss,” she said, “after we’d taken Niclays. The sea boiled around her.”

Estina’s eyes grew wide. “Then you know why so many Vazuvans called for the Saint to protect them,” she said. “Laya, I don’t know how many people died when Valeysa took over. Many fell and prayed to the Saint or the Damsel, but most of us fled to the port. We bartered with sailors for passage, hid in ships, and some idiots tried to swim away.” Estina’s lip curled in disdain, but the sunlight betrayed her wet eyes. “My father was a fishmonger, and one of the fishing captains recognised my brother and I. He took us on board. People turned to piracy in their poverty, and we skipped through three or four crews before our captain was slain. We escaped captivity in the next port. That’s where I met Gian Harlowe. I’ve sailed with him for over a decade now, and as piracy goes I’ve got sweet fucking deal. That’s why I’m not sorry for protecting the _Rose_.”

Laya took a moment to digest Estina’s story. “Where is your brother?” she asked.

Estina let her head list to the side, sadly. “Died of scurvy,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” Laya said.

“I don’t want your pity. What’s done is done, Laya, and now we’re talking about you. Not many people sail with the Golden Empress and live to tell the tale, and only idiots try to flee. I can’t decide if you’re brave or stupid, but you’ve got balls of steel. And also it’s hot.”

Laya huffed. Estina finally approached her and reached out a hand. When Laya didn’t move away, Estina turned her head with gentle fingertips at her chin. She inspected the cut with pursed lips.

“I’ve got some salve you can apply to stop the scarring, unless you want to keep it for effect?”

Laya smiled when a playful smirk twisted the corner of Estina’s mouth.

“I _am_ sorry for hurting you, Laya.”

“My life with the Fleet was a different one. I want to leave it behind me,” Laya said, “do you understand why I didn’t tell you?” Laya was right all those days ago to be wary of Estina, although it was clear that whilst formidable, she hadn’t a naturally malicious bone in her body.

“To stop careless boatswains holding a sword to your throat?” Estina asked.

“For a start,” said Laya. “You could make it up to me, though.”

Estina flicked her eyes down Laya’s body. “Oh?”

“Not what I meant,” said Laya, but the joke worked, and she breathed easier again. “Captain Harlowe said you’ve run into the Fleet before. I guess that means you’ve traded in the East?”

“We rarely trade with the Empire, but yes. Why do you ask?”

“Niclays asked me to advise Queen Sabran and the Unceasing Emperor on a trade route, but Captain Harlowe would be more help than me. I’ve never been a navigator.”

Estina frowned. “I’d have thought Sabran would ask Harlowe’s counsel herself. But then, perhaps not. Touchy subject for a queen.”

Laya pursed her lips.

“You’ll have to take this request to Harlowe. Perhaps he could spare Hafrid for a day or two.”

“I’ll do it tomorrow once things have settled down,” Laya conceded. “Look, Estina. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but…I don’t judge you. We all do whatever we can to survive.” She took Estina’s hands and squeezed them. This close up the shadow of her hat did nothing to hide her eyes.

“Alright. Now, will you let me make it up to you properly?”

Laya grinned. “Fine…and I’ll take you up on that salve.”

*

Perchling was the perfect depiction of how Laya felt. Houses sat precariously upon cliff shelves, fighting the winds that threatened to topple them. A steep, winding staircase was cut into the cliff itself, and Laya imagined that the inhabitants of the port town must have thigh muscles of iron. She had laughed when she’d first spotted the town from the deck of the _Rose Eternal_ , and the crew had thought her quite mad.

In comparison, Niclays had groaned and grumbled at the sight of the place, cursing his arm and his leg as he thumped with his cane along the deck. This had amused Harlowe so much that he’d waited a good half hour before revealing the existence of the level trade route around the cliffs. They’d be able to flag a carriage from the docks.

It was nightfall on the second day at sea when they finally docked in Inys, having battled a northerly wind. Only two days sailing shouldn’t make such a difference, but between the strait and the high cliffs the wind was biting, and the smell of salt overpowered any scents from the town. Where Perunta was sprawling and vibrant, Perchling was cold and contained.

“Mother of Galian,” Estina swore from the deck, “it’s freezing cold out here!” 

Niclays, Hafrid, and Laya stood on the jetty with their cloaks tightly wrapped around them. Laya had carried Niclays’ trunk down the gangway. A line of soldiers armed with muskets stood in on the bank at the opposite end of their jetty. The Perchling fortifications were not relics of time past but in active use; the beach riddled with walls and cannons, and the coast lined with watchtowers. Niclays saw Laya studying them.

“Perchling is the Inyscan war front,” he explained.

“Who are they at war with?” Laya asked. She was fairly certain no land was presently waging war against any other.

“No land, yet,” said Hafrid. She was a quiet woman, and Laya was surprised to hear her speak. “But there have been rumours of political discontent in Yscalin.”

“The Donmata will soon knock those on the head, I’m sure,” said Estina, striding confidently down the gangway. “I hear she was working against Fýredel from the beginning.” She tapped Laya on the arm lightly and inclined her head towards the very end of the jetty. Leaving the Niclays, Hafrid, and the trunk behind, Laya followed her.

When Estina reached the last few planks she stopped, and removed her hat. She’d fixed a cloth around the crown of her head to protect her hair. Laya stopped beside her, and before she knew it Estina had grasped her forearm and pressed a firm kiss to her mouth.

“What was that for?” she asked.

Estina righted her hat again. “When you’re done with all this political shit, find the _Rose_ and we’ll bring you back home.”

Laya grinned widely. “Miss me already?” she teased.

Estina snorted. “Don’t want you taken advantage of by less honest privateers, that’s all.”

“If you say so.”

A shout from up the jetty. The two of them looked back to see Hafrid waving at them.

“That’s my cue,” said Laya.

Estina tipped her hat with a small, private smile. “See you around, Laya Yidagé.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End! Thank you for reading this self-indulgent fic! <3 
> 
> The final chapter is a playlist for this fic so feel free to check that out if you like!
> 
> find me on tumblr at [folieassdeux](https://folieassdeux.tumblr.com) or at my tpotot sideblog [sabraneadaz](https://sabraneadaz.tumblr.com)
> 
> Laya and Estina love each other and I love comments! :) <3


	3. Bonus: Playlist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a playlist for this fic <3

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at [folieassdeux](https://folieassdeux.tumblr.com) or at my tpotot sideblog [sabraneadaz](https://sabraneadaz.tumblr.com)
> 
> Laya and Estina love each other and I love comments! :) <3


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